


I love you simply

by ms bricolage (onefootforward)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Kinda, idek what I'm doing anymore, it will be, someone please stop me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onefootforward/pseuds/ms%20bricolage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A train. Two clawed hands wrapping around her shoulders and shoving her onto the platform. The horn of the train as it barrels into him.</p><p>Their transformed bodies can take a lot of heat…but they can’t withstand everything. There’s a scream and a screeching sound, and then terrifying silence. Ladybug is on the platform and the villain is on the train, and Chat, he’s, he’s—</p><p>He’s on the ground. And there’s blood—there’s so much blood.  </p><p> </p><p>(The job couldn't always be safe...and the heroes are far too self-sacrificing; A three-years later reveal fic, with some pining, some angsting, a whole lot of bad guys, and possibly...love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The LadyBlog:** a blog dedicated to all things and everything Ladybug related! Click the sidebar links for FAQ's, as well as our editor's choice for favorite Ladybug photos!

 

 

 **Alya:** Welcome back fellow Parisians—and _bienvenue_ to those fans a little farther from home! I’m here today with our favorite Lady, looking for the latest scoop on the crime fighting business, and of course, on the woman behind the mask. Ladybug, would you like to jump right in, say a little to the viewers?

 **Ladybug:** Wow! [ _laughs_ ] Well, I’m honoured, as always, to be here. Such a lovely little café! And thanks to everyone who’s been giving their support to me and Chat—oh, and to Alya, of course, who does all of this grunt work for very little reward.

 **A:** Oh now, don’t start on that line again! Half of Paris is in envy of my working relationship with its Lady.

 **LB:** Well, if it’s only _half_ —

 **A:** And of course, the other half is too busy effusing your praise to bother worrying over me.

[ _Aside: when Ladybug blushes, she’s as crimson as her suit! And just as cute._ ]

 **LB:** It’s to my benefit, honestly!

 **A:** Well, if you insist [ _laughter_ ].

Now, since you brought it up first, how _is_ our little black cat doing?

 **LB:** [ _waves hands in the_ air] Ah, well, he’s been recovering. And sulking about that, of course. Chat wouldn’t sit on the sidelines for even a moment if he could help it.

 **A:** I’ll assume that _you’re_ the reason he can’t?

 **LB:** Absolutely. I’ll have Paris know, if you see a lack of that tom cat for a few more days, it’s for the best! And _completely_ out of his control—direct all your Chat Noir-related angst to me, please, as I’m the happy cause of it.

 **A:** I _can’t_ imagine how that conversation went.

 **LB:** With a lot of respect

 **A:** Oh?

 **LB:** …and bribing.

 **A:** [ _laughing_ ]Any chance you could let us in on what bait is powerful enough to keep your favorite kitty from your side? I’m sure all of the city knows just how dedicated to each other the two of you are—I feel as if I’ll forever be waiting on one of you to confirm that particular relationship status.

 **LB:** [ _blushing_ ] Uhm…I’m going to have to say ‘no comment’ for that one. For both of those ones.

 **A:** Foiled again!

 **LB:** A little bit of secrecy is good in the crime fighting business.

 **A:** You realize that, as a reporter, I’m honour-bound to disagree with you [ _Ladybug grins_ ].

With that said, we all want him to have a full recovery, so we will hold back our Chat Noir-angst for both of your sakes!

 **LB:** Thanks! And let’s hope for another few peaceful days.

 **A:** So that there’s nothing to tempt him outside?

 **LB:** _Exactement_!

 **A:** My, my, what a fine duo the two of you make—protective even _outside_ of the masks!

 **LB:** [ _strained smile_ ] Well yes, it’s ah, something very important. [ _leaning forward, eyes intent_ ] And what is this I hear about you graduating this year?

 **A:** The tables are turning—you _are_ well connected. You must tell me your sources.

 **LB:** A good reporter never breaks a source’s confidence—or so I’ve been told.

 **A:** Cheeky! But you’re correct, it just so happens to be this lucky reporters final year of _lycée_!

 **LB:** Off to do bigger and better things?

 **A:** Better things then keep up with the city’s favorite crime stopping force? Absolutely not! Which leads me to another question—Ladybug, even though you are quite firm on your policy of keeping your personal life a secret, something that definitely keeps all of us investigators on our toes, would you put at least one poor girl out of her misery?

 **LB:** [ _laughs_ ] I can certainly try.

 **A:** Will you be staying in Paris for the foreseeable future? Or are there perhaps…bigger and better things out there for a Ladybug and her charming cat?

 **LB:** Well, I would hardly call Chat mine—his ego gets too big [ _laughs_ ]. Ah, I’m kidding. It’s as you’ve said—bigger and better things than protecting Paris? Impossible. I’ll stay and defend my city for as long as I live. After all, I love it here! What is there not to love about Paris!

[ _A serious look comes over her face abruptly and she turns to face the camera_ ]

Paris is my home, and it’s where a lot of the people I love call home. So, for anyone wondering, I will _always_ be here to keep it safe for them, you have my word.

 **A:** [ _Extended pause_ ] …Well, I’m sure I speak for all of Paris when I say we’re _truly_ grateful for such a defender [ _clears throat_ ]. Ah yes, you’ve heard it folks! Ladybug is here to stay!

 

 

[ **click link to watch the full video interview** ]—https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AX_QfNI150Y

 

 

 

 _White lights, rushing, rushing, they’re approaching and she’s_ stuck _, the man is on top of the train, he’s_ on top of it _, how could she have missed that, there’s only so much technology in the underground, he’s on top of the train and the lights are racing towards her—_

 _—someone’s calling out, it’s not her name but it_ is _, they’re yelling, the train is getting closer—_

 _—her foot won’t come loose, there’s metal twisted around it, the akumas are getting stronger and she can’t figure out what the Lucky Charm_ is _, the train horn blares and there are people on the metro, so many people, she can’t just destroy the train—_

_—hands on her shoulders—_

_—claws digging against her side—_

_—a roar—_

_—“Get out of the way!” —_

_—the track lets go of her foot, grabs onto something else, some_ one _else, only she doesn’t notice, she can’t tell because the claws are tightening, getting tighter as they_ push _, she’s flying—_

_—a scream; her scream, she’s screaming—_

_—“Wake up!” —_

_—so much blood—_

_—“Wake_ up _! Chat, wake”—_

“Marinette, wake up!”

She’s on the platform—no, she’s on the floor. Her mouth feels like someone swabbed it with cotton balls it’s so dry, and she’s on her bedroom floor, not the platform.

“Your alarm has been going off for a half hour honey. You’re going to be late.” The shadow looming over her says—the intruder, which she uses every ounce of control she has not to give into instinct and round on.

She blinks instead, muddled mind processing everything a few beats slow. “Mornin’ Maman.”

“Good morning sweetheart.” Her mother smiles, syrupy sweet. They both ignore the fact that Marinette’s face is mashed into the hardwood—though there’s a deeper reality than that, there’s the one where at some point in the night she must have jostled herself out of bed and no one heard the loud _thud_ as she struggled to catch her breath.

Of course, the nicer reality is that Marinette is just a big klutz, and her mother loves her despite in. The nicer reality is the only one she _likes_ , and it’s the reality that she’s going to face this morning. Her head is spinning too much for anything more.

“Your father hasn’t eaten all of breakfast quite yet, so if you hurry you could probably snatch some and still make it to class on time.” Her mother adds, giving Marinette a look before heading for the stairs.

Marinette sighs. “Thanks Maman.”

She listens to the sound of her footsteps as she trots downstairs, the faint murmurs that drift up from the kitchen. Paul must be opening the store this morning, which means that she’s out of any reasonable excuses to skip class…which is _fine_ , totally fine, because she’s absolutely got to go in anyway, there are class duties to finishes, some big news Alya has to tell her—five missed calls suggest something big, anyway, and of course, there’s no world in which she gets away with skipping class twice in one week.

Though…it’s been a long week.

Tikki floats up from wherever she’d been sleeping, wide eyed and alert. Marinette kind of hates her for that, though she’s blissfully too bewildered still to say anything.

“Marinette?”

She shuffles onto her back so that she can look up at the kwami. “Hmm?”

“Are you going to get off the floor anytime soon?”

“Oh!” She jolts up, leaping to her feet despite the head rush. “Yup, of course, the—we’ve got the. School. I’m going to school.”

Tikki giggles. “You’ve got ten minutes before you’ll be late!”

“Okay,” she says weakly, “challenge accepted.”

It’s nearly summer in Paris, which means Marinette gets to wear cute, frilly tops thanks to the occasional heat wave that drenched the city—and of course, it also means one very ruffled, frizzy best friend. By the time Marinette meets up with Alya in front of their lockers the poor girl is down to a tank top and three empty water bottles, immediately launching into a barrage of cheerful complaints once she spots Marinette.

Of course, Alya’s her best friend, closest confident when she’s not wearing a mask, so it takes all of ten minutes before she turns her weather-induced agitation on her.

“Alright, c’mon. What is up with you?”

Marinette glances up. Class starts in another few minutes and she’d been trying to remember which course came first. This is the problem with textbooks, she thinks. You can’t just bring all of them to class because you forgot which teacher was up first—well, technically you _could_ , of course then you’d be carrying a lot of extra weight and you’d be exhausted by lunch time…although her arms would get a good workout, and then she could finally have the time to stretch her muscles in her civilian life. It wasn’t a _bad_ idea, now that she thought about it, although it’d get her a couple of second glances.

“Huh?” She mutters distractedly.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Alya accuses, narrowing her eyes and leaning towards her. “And you didn’t even react when I said I was moving to Russia.”

Her stomach drops. “You’re moving _where_?”

Alya holds up her hands. Marinette feels her head spinning again; if this keeps up she’s just going home, parental wrath be damned.

“Woah girl, chill. I was joking. Seriously, are you okay?”

She feels her lip tremble. “Alya, you can’t _move_ away!”

Alya catches her by the shoulder. Marinette is…well, drooping. She _feels_ herself drooping. She’s a droopy, pathetic excuse for a teenager. She’s a droopy, pathetic teenager whose friend is threatening to _leave_ , and Marinette can’t take any of her friends leaving right now, _it’s really not nice_ —

“Sugar,” Alya says, unwittingly interrupting Marinette’s mental acrobatics, “I’m _not_. I was going to—look, not important. I’m staying in Paris, you’re accepting that scholarship to IFA, and we’ll practically be roommates. Only you’ve got some sweet digs and I’ve got a dorm room. Now spill.”

“Spill what?”

“What’s got you so down?”

Science. It’s definitely science this afternoon. Marinette turns to her locker and makes a bid for her textbook. “Uhm,” she stammers, “It’s just…”

Alya makes a soothing noise. “Is it graduation? The decals on the class’ cap and gown sets _was_ a bit much, although how do you say no as class president, and when all our friends go _oh Marinette, you’re so talented_ —I mean you are, so it’s half your fault—”

“Nooo,” she says slowly, “It’s not that exactly…”

“Adrien then?” Alya raises an eyebrow. “I know you’ve said that you’ve sworn that whole thing off, even though we’ve both acknowledged that you’re being ridiculous and you still get bummed when his gigs get extended.”

“Alyaaaa,” Marinette whines, trying not to wince and failing.

Alya just leans in even more and stares Marinette down. It’s _really_ effective. Next time she’s going on a patrol she’s just going to bring Alya and her fact-acquiring stares and then all the people even thinking of giving in to an akuma will have to go home for the evening to revaluate their life choices.

Actually, on second thought, Marinette doesn’t want _anyone_ out on patrols with her anymore.

Her shoulders slump. “I don’t know, it’s just…everything? Everything’s changing. And I had a bad—well, weird dream last night.”

“Again?”

“I’m just tired.” She admits, and continues to droop. The droop is effective. Everyone has to let her be with the drooping and the slumping and the heavy, sad science textbook in her hands.

Alya lays a hand on her shoulder. “You know what would cheer you up? A little pre-grad celebration. How about we get the gang together, hang out this weekend?”

Marinette laughs. “That sounds great. As long as it’s Sunday.”

“Anything for you! Now, do you want to hear my amazing news about my morning interview with LadyBug, or my amazing news about my latest job offer?”

 

 

 

Her first class is definitely _not_ science. Once Nino and Alya start laughing at her, Marinette knows the day is a lost cause. They never _stop,_ the two of them continuously bouncing off each other’s giggling faces, and rather than be pulled into yet _another_ lecture from the teacher on proper classroom decorum, Marinette pulls out her sketch book and studiously pretends that she’s doodling something history-related.

Since there’s been Ladybug's around for 5000 years, she’s not _technically_ lying to anyone…and besides, a spotted onesie sounds like just the thing she needs to make her Friday productive.

If she designs a second one, fully black and outfitted with little ears at the top, well then, it’s no one’s business but hers. Besides, it’s not like she’ll _make_ the things.

 

 

 

“Why do you only give your exclusives to Alya?”

She stops shifting around, giving up on finding a more comfortable spot, at least for the moment. It’s not until Chat jars her shoulder with the edge of his baton that she looks up. “Pardon?”

“Alya? The LadyBlog? There’s another exclusive up there.”

She frowns. “I thought I’d bribed the nurses to only give your laptop in the mornings.”

“Well yes,” Chat sniffs, “While your pastries _are_ powerful, the fact that I’m bribing half the staff to keep quiet about my stay here means I have bribe veto.”

“Bribe veto? Is that even a thing?”

He purrs. “My Lady, if you’re having trouble seeing the laptop I have, when it’s clearly well past noon, then you could always come hop up here on the bed and have a closer look—”

The fluffy side of her pen hits him firmly on the side of his arm closest to Ladybug, effectively cutting him off. Chat glares—it’s fond, of course, and Lady feels herself grinning in response. She doesn’t point out that the hospital beds are too small for the two of them to lay on without cuddling up. She’s fairly certain that’s _exactly_ what the silly cat wants.

She twists in her chair again, hoping for either a more comfortable way to curl up on these awful plastic instruments of torture, or even just for the answer to her chemistry homework to become clearer as her discomfort increases. Neither of these things however are seeming likely to happen—an awful truth, honestly—although she’s finally come to terms with the likelihood of failing her next unit exam.

“Lady?”

“Mhmm?”

“It’s no use.”

She gnaws on the tip of her pen, _electron, protons, reduction_ … _why not just ask me to bake a cake instead?_ “What’s no use?”

“I’ve already watched the full interview.”

Her grip on the textbook weakens, nearly revealing the cover to Chat. She blinks.

“Alya only uploaded it this afternoon!” She knows that because she’d _watched her do it_. The benefit to Alya conducting the majority of her interviews—a necessary evil, as they’d gotten older—was that she got to be around during their edits.

“I have my notifications on. Staying here is _boring_ , especially since the staff can’t visit all the time.”

It was the only way to have Chat Noir in a hospital, without having his secret identity plastered all the way across Paris as a consequence. The hospital staff had been exceptionally nice, particularly with the extra lump sum of funds being deposited into their bank accounts this Sunday. Honestly, she’d been all for having him stay in his home and hiring an at home attendant—something which was apparently possible given that in the real world Chat was some sort of _wealthy_ teenager _—_ to make sure none of his _highly dangerous_ injuries become even _more_ dangerous, but Chat had insisted on some added incentive to stay in bed. Namely, his Lady.

After everything, she really didn’t mind…only, she couldn’t exactly visit his home without having yet another clue to who the kitty cat was. And if the latest attack had taught her anything, it was that she had to be firm with this—after all, secrecy meant safety.

So—hospital. At least until the end of the week.

“Why not read a book?”

“I read a blog. It’s kind of the same thing?”

 _No it isn’t_ , she thinks mutinously, _a book isn’t about current events. A_ book _wouldn’t have people commenting on your recent disappearance from the city._

“It’s not that I don’t want you reading the interviews,” though, three years into their partnership and she still felt it was a little odd that he kept up his subscriptions to her fan sites, “It’s just…embarrassing? Why read about it when you could just ask me?”

Chat lets out a small noise, like he’s considered this option and found it wanting.

“What?”

“It’s just,” he shrugs, “You give all your exclusives to Alya, meet up with her at these little cafes in full disguise—while already _in_ a disguise. And you tell her things about me.”

She stares openly. A light dusting of red spreads across the tops of Chat’s cheeks, his eyes studiously _not_ on hers. She can’t help it—she laughs.

“Kitty cat, are you pouting?”

He frowns. “No.”

“There’s no need.”

“I’m _not_. I just—you like her.”

She blinks. “Alya?”

“ _Yes._ ” He says forcefully.

“Oh.” She cants her head at him, carefully folding shut her chemistry textbook, coverside down. “Of course I like Alya. Alya’s a very likable person.”

He settles further into his bed—it’s tilted up, so he can’t flop over dramatically anymore, as he had the first few days Ladybug had forced him to take time off in order to heal up properly. Still, Chat makes it work for him, crossing his arms over, black-clad claws tapping impatiently at his side.

For some reason, for such a confident feline, he was terribly easy to ruffle.

“Chat.” He ignores her. “ _Chat_.”

“Hmm?”

“ _You’re_ a very likable person.”

The flush comes back. He’s still not meeting her eyes.

“Oh?”

She nods sagely. “It’s true.”

“Right.” The corners of his lips tug up. “I’m a likable person.”

“Mhmm,” she clamps down a giggle, “I wouldn’t threaten just _anyone_ to stay on their mandatory bed rest.”

“Right, you wouldn’t threaten—hey, this isn’t your way of trying to get me to stay the extra week, is it?”

She widens her eyes. “ _Never_.”

He narrows her eyes at her, then leans across the small space between the edge of his bed and the chair she’d pulled up. His claw taps lightly against her nose, her eyes crossing as she tries to follow it.

“Ladybug, you are purrfectly nefarious.” He accuses, not moving back.

Her smile is weak. “Kitty cat, you’re bugging out. There’s no ulterior motive here.”

It’s worth it, for the way he dissolves into giggles—especially since it gets him to lean back, and lets the Marinette side of her cool her head. Chat doesn’t _giggle_ very often, he’s more of a…chuckler. A snicker and wink…-er. Usually he’s too suave to let himself look like the kid he is, even though it makes him come off sort of childish. Chat losing _his_ cool helps Ladybug keep _hers_.

She watches him laugh for a moment, the way his shoulders shake and how he keeps his bottom lip tucked under his teeth every so often, trying not to be so loud. True to his word he’s stayed nearly a full week in the hospital, only assuming his costume when the nurses come to check on him, or when she comes to visit. It’s funny, but she’d always known he would, and it had let her relax the last few days, content that he was somewhere safe. Chat, contrary to how he appears, never lies—not to her.

Her most trusted partner.

_—white lights rushing; a heart-stopping scream—_

She shoots to her feet—a little too quickly, by the way Chat quiets. Studiously ignoring any looks he might be sending her way, she starts shoving her books back into her bag. The niggling warnings in her head that always sound suspiciously like her mother are entirely absent, chased away by something stronger, something she bows to as she clambers up into the bed with him, careful to maintain the sliver of space that the single will allow. Any undue jostling could hurt his newly healed ribs.

“Lady…?” His voice is choked, and even though she’s not looking at his face she just _knows_ he’s too dazed for words. It’s not _weird_ , because they’re friends and because she’s relaxed her personal barriers over the years, but it’s—

Well, she’s not thinking about it.

“Just—hold tight for a second.” She stretches her toes down, until they brush against his. It’s impossible not to tangle their limbs together, just a little bit, her knees slotted next his shins, her elbow laying slightly under his chest, her other arm resting lightly on top of it. She’s shorter than him—particular now that they’re older, his growth spurt continuing while hers remained woefully stagnant. It means, that as her feet curl on top of the covers, knees bent and coming to rest just short of his own, her head barely rests on his shoulder.

It means that she doesn’t have to meet his eyes as she settles against his side, listening carefully to each hitched breath.

They stay still like that for a moment—Chat’s breathing slowly evening out, giving her what she wanted all along. _Three years_ , she thinks. _It’s a long time to know someone._

“Chat?”

“Y-yes?”

“I’m really glad you’re feeling better.”

He makes a noise of agreement, from somewhere deep in his throat. His free hand—the one she doesn’t have pinned by her shoulder—comes up to his chest to rest on hers. His breaths are deep and even.

“Of course I am. I have nine lives after all.” He jokes, gentle as ever, his hand tightening over hers briefly before slipping away. Not pushing.

 “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“…Chat?”

She can hear the smile in his voice. “Yes?”

“This is a disciplinary hug. You aren’t allowed to enjoy it.”

“Okay.”

“Alya vetoed the water bottle idea.”

She feels him moving again—laughing, she realizes. “No,” he says, “That week where you wore it on every patrol was probably enough.”

“Mm. I don’t agree, but since your yowling would probably draw the nurses…”

“I don’t _yowl_.”

She hides her grin in his shoulder. “I have video proof that says otherwise.”

Chat doesn’t respond, and since she’s decided to ignore that fact that she’s all but plastered herself up against a boy she’s told herself she can’t get any more attached to, she doesn’t push it.

“Was… _this_ also Alya’s idea?” He eventually asks.

She chances a look up—his grin is smug, though there’s a certain tenseness around his mouth that has her sliding her gaze past it. She considers nipping at his ear, since she’d read that alphas assert themselves that way, but it’s bad enough that she’s willing to nap on top of him. Besides, Chat’s not _really_ a cat…well, probably.

“Maybe.” She admits. “She said you’d get a kick over it.”

“Oh, I definitely do.”

“Hush. Now, be a good kitty and tell me everything you know about oxidation and reduction.”

 

 

 

The beep on her earrings tell her when it’s time to leave, and Ladybug leaps out the window, ducks behind a corner, and becomes Marinette. It’s late—when they don’t use their charms the transformations last quite a while, especially as the years go by and they both become stronger—but she’s not too concerned. When you’re the person who confronts the bad guys on a regular basis, walking around in the dark of Paris becomes seductive rather than scary.

Tikki sighs from deep in her bag, tuckered out. Marinette digs into her pockets until she comes up with one of the candies she’d swiped from the bakery, and passes it to her satchel.

“Oh, thanks Marinette!” Tikki chirps.

Marinette swings the bag to her front, keeping down any undue manhandling. “No, thank _you_ Tikki. I really appreciate being able to do this every day.”

“It was very nice of you to offer it to Chat. He seems pleased.”

Her lips turn down. “He deserves it.”

There’s a long pause, and then Tikki floats up, keeping pace with Marinette’s trot down the main street.

“I know you’ve said you’re fine doing the patrols on your own for a while but…you know that you don’t have to do these alone, right?”

Marinette smiles down at the kwami. “I know. I have you with me.”

Tikki sags. “That’s not what I meant. Chat is your friend! He’s here for you—that is why you have an important partner!”

Marinette doesn’t reply, focusing on the winding roads taking her back to the bakery. She’s only at home for another few weeks, then she’ll move early into her rooms near college—eager to become an adult, eager to not have to excuse herself for her weird hours. Eager to…keep her close ones safe, just in case. Safe but apart _—_ when had that become the goal? When had her life started to revolve around fighting rather than living? It had been so much easier to be optimistic when she'd first started out...even at fifteen, scared of Chloe and herself and everything Tikki could represent, even  _then_ she'd been hardier. She had survived more. Living was a lot easier when the villains were laughable, and when Lucky Charm was magical enough to erase all the hurt done in an afternoon fight.

It doesn't, anymore. Hawkmoth is getting stronger. Marinette is so _tired_ these days, and yet, somehow, the bad guy just keeps getting stronger. 

It isn’t until they round on her street that she dares to ask, “Tikki…other Ladybugs, they’ve managed without partners, right? Without a…Chat Noir?”

Tikki, back in her bag, pops her head up. “Well, technically yes, but—”

“Then, don’t you think,” she stares ahead, resolute, feeling her resolve weaken a little with each step, “Well, I should be able to do at least this much for him, right?”

“Marinette…it’s not something that you _have_ to do though. And only you can decide what's the best thing for _right now_ …”

“And?”

Tikki pauses. “And I don’t think it’s what Chat would want.”

_That’s just the problem, isn’t it?_

“You’re right.” She says, voice raspy. “I’m just anxious I guess.”

Before Tikki can say anything else Marinette spots the bakery doors. It’s only just closing now, open later in the summer months, so it’s her mother’s worried smile that greets her as she jogs up to the front doors. Tikki ducks back into the bag long before anyone can spot her, so she misses the harried expression, the furrowed brows that only ever really appear when Maman's been worrying over her safety.

“Honey, you’re home.”

She sighs at the admonishment in her tone. “I’m sorry I’m late Maman. I meant to call.”

Her mom sighs. She's covered in flour, only you wouldn't know it by the easy way she rests her hand on her cheek, spreading the powder around. “You know we normally wouldn’t worry, since you’re such a responsible girl…but after that latest attack, it just seems a little bit more dangerous out there doesn’t it?”

“I know.” Marinette  _does_. Sometimes she wishes her family knew this.

Of course, then Maman would fret even more. Papa would take to following her around, like a protective guard dog, and it's sweet, she knows it is, but its another reminder that there's a part of her life that's a lie _—_ that even when things are hard, they're still a secret.  

“Even they get hurt..." Maman is saying, head still in her hand, "I can’t believe that poor boy got hit by a train—”

Marinette rushes past her, stilling only for a moment to kiss her on the cheek in greeting. “I'll call next time, I promise. I’ll just—I’m off to bed, okay?”

“Oh! Marinette—of course. Have a good sleep.”

“Night Maman.” She pauses on the step upstairs. “I love you.”

 

 

 

_A train. Two clawed hands wrapping around her shoulders and shoving her onto the platform. The horn of the train as it barrels into him._

_Their transformed bodies can take a lot of heat…but they can’t withstand_ everything _. There’s a scream and a screeching sound, and then terrifying silence. Ladybug is on the platform and the villain is on the train, and Chat, he’s, he’s—_

 _He’s on the ground. And there’s blood—there’s so much blood._  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes several more minutes of deflecting the danger before they get a clear look at the weapon in his hands—it is actually a leash, just a leash that’s glowing red and burns hot to the touch. Ladybug grabs it anyway, reaches for it while Chat’s distracted pulling a trapped family to safety, and he thinks he can hear her cry out even as she breaks it. The akuma is purified, the Seine reverted back to normal, and Ladybug leaves with a nod and clenched fingers. 
> 
> Chat watches her go and wishes that, just for once, he had permission to follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i call this one _adrien has friends and is sad_.

 

 

 

When Adrien wakes up the first time he’s still groggy—it’s the morphine of course, though that's something he only realizes later. His eyelids stick together when he tries to open them and he can only see that hot black, the star-pricked dimness that mean he’s been asleep way too long. He’s groggy and drugged up and so _tired…_ and he finds himself stuck in this endless loop of recollection, of being trapped on a plane while his city goes to hell in a handbasket. While his partner fights the good fight and gets _hit_ , gets hurt and he’s sitting in the terminal in this terrible plane thinking one simple thing:

_Secret identities. They’re not all they’re cracked up to be._

The media report on his phone updates every three minutes, which means one hundred and eighty long seconds ticking by between the time he finds out there’s an akuma in Paris and the moment he sees that there’s been an explosion in the underground. And he needs to _get there_ , needs to get off this plane so he can change and…and, well—there’s this moment of clarity, in between a heavily perfumed businesswoman and a chatty old man, clarity where Adrien just _knows_ that if they aren’t rushed off in the next sixty seconds he is going to transform _right there on the plane,_ secrets be damned, and then they’ll _have_ to make room for him, because he’s one half of Paris’ resident heroes, and there’s a villain in the city.

There’s _always_ a villain in the city…and there’s never a good reason for him not to be at his partner’s side.

So he remembers the plane and running, remembers the train and then the _hurting_ , and he remembers that red blur hovering over him, the voice loud in his ear. Everything after that is hazy and too painful to think about, so he wakes up the first time groggy and alone.

He wakes up the second time, still groggy, but there’s a sun in his room, and she’s hiding her face behind her hands. Ladybug explains the whole situation that way, eyes shut and hands steady, over and over again about how he’s going to be alright now. Plagg floats around the room next to her head, making faces that she can’t see. Adrien understands, he does. But Ladybug won’t look at him, and he gets this, he’d do the same to respect her privacy, only she _knows_ he wouldn’t care, and—

Well, a month passes, and while she’d opened her eyes once he’d put on the suit, while she’d spent a whole week by his side just because he’d wanted her to, Ladybug _still_ isn’t really looking at him.

The weight of his suit is restricting, and it chafes. Oh god, how it chafes.

 

“Dude, you need a _break_.”

Adrien blinks up. Nino has one hand on his elbow, the other resting defensively on the strap across his chest.

“Uhm,” Adrien stammers. “Hey there Nino.”

Nino just scowls, thunderclouds on his forehead. “A _break_ ,” he says again, “because too much studying is gonna make _anyone_ lose their mind.”

Adrien glances back down to the textbook he has open, a heavily underlined notebook laid out next to it. In the top right corner Adrien’s sketched out a dramatic rendering of the latest akuma villain, an angry looking woman with peacock feathers curled around her face. The phrases _decimals have a point_ and _seriously dude u gotta, U GOTTA. get ur head in the game_ are embarrassingly easy to read from a distance, as Adrien has written them in the empty margins of his page in bright red ink.

He looks at all this and then glances up at Nino again, his eyebrow quirked. “I’m…not really studying that hard? But I probably should stick with it…” There’s an exam in a few days, one which Adrien’s early admission to _École Normale Supérieure_ is dependant on. It’s not like he _doesn’t_ have the luxury of at-home tutors, and a father who would heavily frown on an Agreste failing at anything he set his mind on, but that doesn’t mean Adrien’s relaxed about it.

“No,” Nino says firmly. “No, you’re all—frowny. And scowling. It’s a sign that your brain is about to _explode_ ,” Nino makes a dramatic noise which Adrien’s guesses, purely on faith, is meant to be the sound of an explosion.

Adrien stares at him blankly. “Nino,” he starts uncertainly, “are—is everything okay?”

Nino nods quickly, which usually means an emphatic _no_. “Absolutely. As soon as we leave the library and are safely off the school’s property, things will be _great_.”

Because Adrien rarely sees Nino lose his cool, and because there are still two days before the test, he collects his things and slides them haphazardly into his bag without further protest. There was an akuma attack yesterday which means there probably won’t be another one so early in the week, so Adrien only feels a _little_ guilty when he gives his driver the slip and hops onto the metro with Nino.

Of course, going back to the metro brings back _other_ memories…ones which Adrien shameless wrestles into submission, in the wake of more relevant problems. It’s been a _month_ , and he’s fine.

He’s fine.

They ride it for a half hour in near silence, Nino glancing around cagily and fiddling with his phone during the longer stops, until he strides off it in a fit of _something_ , looking over his shoulder every so often to check that Adrien is still trotting at his heels. They end up sitting on a bench in a park full of screaming children, because this is Paris on the brink of a summer heat wave and people want to be outside. Except, perhaps, Nino, who’s still doing an excellent impersonation of Adrien’s father, all stoic and scowling.

Adrien’s not really sure what the proper procedure is for a situation like this. He stretches his legs out in front of him and bites down on all the questions in his head, focuses on the shift of his friend next to him as he collects himself.

“My parents…” Nino starts off, staring blankly at a group of kids playing tag in front of them, “they’re uhm, you know they’re really great. Super smart people, always supported me, went to all the weird school stuff that I asked them to. You know, not like—they’re awesome people, right?”

He nods his head. “The opposite of mine, you mean.”

Nino blows out a big breath of air, whistling through his gritted teeth. “Yeah man, basically. Sorry.”

“No worries.”

“Still.”

Adrien laughs, even though it stretches his face uncomfortably. “Seriously. Your family’s super nice.”

Nino tips his head back. “They are. So it’s _really_ difficult to let them down, and man, you know how they are—Mum’s got a freakin’ doctorate and Maman is like, the top defense lawyer in Paris. They’re _ridiculously_ smart.”

“Nino…” Adrien turns to him, drawing in his gaze for the first time since they left school. “What is this all about? What do you mean ‘let them down’?”

“I’m not going to university,” Nino lets out in a great big rush, as if the words have run off on him, “I don’t—there’s nothing there for me, y’know? I’m not going to go and study for another few years just because I _should_ , and there’s isn’t anything I’m interested in. I didn’t apply.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Nino sighs, sagging forward, “ _Oh_.”

Adrien twists his ring absently. “Have you—what did your moms say?”

“I haven’t told them yet. But _fuck_ ,” Nino swears, dropping his head into his hands, “they’re going to be pissed.”

“You don’t know for sure—”

“No, I do. I told them I’d sent everything in. Maybe they wouldn’t care so much if I was going to do something _useful_ , but I just didn’t send in any applications. Then I _lied_ about it. Like, shit, what do you say to that?”

He lays a hand on Nino’s back, aiming for comforting when he asks, “The truth?” he tries, and then, “Why did you lie, anyway?”

“I was nervous,” Nino laughs bitterly, “I was _scared_ , I guess. That’s so uncool man.”

Adrien’s grip tightens. He’d been so focused on worrying where his future was going, how to get it out from his father’s thumb without actually _losing_ his father, that he’d never stopped to think about what it would be like to not have that forward direction.

“It’s not about being cool or not,” he says slowly, “which, for the record, you’re still definitely the _coolest_ , okay?”

Nino huffs a breath that might just be a laugh. Adrien pushes on. “It’s probably normal to be scared about these sorts of things…I mean, everyone puts so much pressure on who you’re _going_ to be that they lose sigh of who we are right now. You deserve time to figure it out. Not everyone takes the same path, and your parents love you—I’m sure they’ll understand if you just…tell them like you just told me.”

Nino whines. “What if they _don’t_?”

“Then you can move out with Alya like you two keep talking about and I’ll help you badger your moms until they see reason.”

This time Nino actually does laugh, rolling back his shoulders until he’s sitting up a little more straightly and staring at Adrien out of the corner of his eye. “You’d badger my parents?”

“Absolutely.”

“Like what, you’re gonna call them randomly and be all…?”

Adrien mimes holding up a phone. “ _Your son is super rad ma’am_ ,” he says, voice deepening for absolutely no good reason, since he’s still pretending to be himself, “ _he’s the coolest of the cool. I watched him cook a four-course meal for brunch without burning a single thing, he’s got them mad skills.”_

“Them mad skills,” Nino sighs, still smiling—Adrien counts it as an improvement. “Ah yes, my culinary future of _just_ breakfast foods.”

“They’re honestly the best food group.”

“Lies and slander. You would eat _cake_ all the time, every day, if you could.” Nino accuses, leaning back.

“Ouch. I’m in _tiers_ , Nino. Tiers of _cake_.”

“That’s not denial I hear.”

“No,” Adrien agrees, “because who _wouldn’t_ eat cake all the time. It’d never dessert you.”

“Oh my god,” Nino snickers, “please stop.”

“You can do whatever you want,” Adrien says solemnly, “you just have to believe in yourself. It’ll be a piece of—”

“ _Don’t—_ ”

“— _cake_.”

Nino gestures at the sky, as if calling on some force larger than this current conversation. “How are we friends again?”

“Because you’re my butter half.”

“I feel like I’m just setting you up here. Are you going to put that on your CV when you graduate? ‘ _Adrien Agreste, aces math and science, can make a pun out of literally anything’_.”

Adrien sighs exaggeratedly. “Yes actually, it’ll just be those two things in bullet point and absolutely nothing else.”

“Well,” Nino says after some consideration, “maybe put a photo of your face on it as well. Couldn’t hurt.”

“Thanks man. I appreciate that piece of sage wisdom.” Then, because he actually can’t help himself, “For the record, my piece of sage wisdom is to trust your parents to forgive you anyway.”

Nino glances at him from the corner of his eye again. “Nice segue dude.”

“What,” Adrien grins, “that wasn’t smooth enough for you? Should I maybe _sweeten the deal_ by adding that I’ve met your mothers, and while they might ground you for all of eternity, they’re definitely nuts about you.”

With a groan and a suspicious look Nino asks, “Did you really try and make _nuts_ into part of your long-term pun game?”

“ _Long-term pun game_ —”

“Do not try and pretend you don’t have a long-term pun game.”

Adrien sits up straighter, raising his chin defiantly. “No comment.”

“Fuck, you’ve been hanging out with Alya too much.” But he says it lightly, so Adrien knows it’s not an admonishment. Nino shakes his head, a small quirk to his lips, “But yeah. I get what you mean man. Thanks, it’s…I mean, I know they’ll get over it eventually but…it helps to hear it from someone else.”

“Anytime,” Adrien says firmly. “And if you want some moral support when you tell them, or like, afterwards, whenever…or if you just want to relocate all of our conversations a half an hour outside the school district—”

Nino elbows him. "Shut up. You  _were_ frowning a lot. And I can't stand being at the school after hours, not when there's so many more awesome things to be done."

"Like sitting on a park bench watching..." Adrien looks in front of them and squints, "is he eating grass?"

Nino follows his gaze and grimaces when his eyes land on the toddler ripping up chunks of park land and resolutely stuffing them into his mouth. His mother—or who Adrien's assuming is his mother—sits at his back and pats the kid's head absently, chatting with a friend standing nearby.

"That's disgusting," Nino agrees, "but honestly I was expecting a little more judgement, so I just got off at the stop closest to the cafe Alya used to work at."

Adrien frowns. "Judgement? From me?"

"Yeah, sorry, but like—you're going to that fancy school to become a physicist genius, I was nervous."

"But—"

"Dude, you're my best friend. I know you wouldn't judge. It was totally irrational."

"I don't." Adrien says emphatically, just in case. "I really, really don't. I can rhapsodize about you for a few minutes if you think it'd help."

“Yeah, I know.” Nino smiles widely, looking loads better than the frenetic twitching person who’d accosted him an hour earlier. “That’s why I made you abandon all your plans of being a model student so that you could help me lament about how I’m definitely _not_.”

“You’ve got skills I don’t,” Adrien shrugs, “And I’ve got a very frightening set of tutors at my house. Just imagine trying to tell _Nathalie_ that I’m planning on moving out.”

They share a look and shudder almost in sync.

“Scary,” Nino agrees.

With that sliver of resolve the sounds of Paris filter back in, and when Adrien takes the time to check his phone it’s already half past five. There’s a high chance that this detour will come back to bite him in the ass, but if Adrien kept to each of his father’s rules of living he’d never get _anywhere_. It’s actually a little bittersweet to think about Nino’s parents, who are open to the idea of their kid being something they’re not, about whom Adrien can confidently say _they’ll love you no matter what._

Gabriel would probably love him, regardless of what Adrien did…but he makes it very difficult to be sure.

Nino nudges him in the side, drawing him away from that particular line of thought. “And hey. You know it goes both ways, right?” At Adrien’s confused look Nino presses on. “I don’t know what happened recently, but I mean…if you ever want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

Adrien smiles weakly and does them both the curtesy of not trying to lie about it.

“Thanks Nino.”

Nino leans back and tips his head up to meet to late-afternoon sun. His headphones are still wrapped around his neck, a mirror image of the same person who, three years ago, had taken a second look at Adrien and thought to offer up his friendship. Adrien thinks that he’ll be just fine on whatever path his future ends up taking, because Nino _is_ talented and confident and most of the time he’s the friend who Adrien draws the most strength from.

“Dude,” Nino says, “you know there’s nothing Bundt support here.”

Honestly, everyone should try to be more like Nino.

 

 

 

**RISE IN ATTACKS!! CAN OUR HEROES DEFEND AGAINST THE TIDAL WAVE OF VILLAINOUS CITIZENS WHO CONTINUE TO FLOOD OUR CITY?**

_This Saturday marks the fourth consecutive week of noted increases in akuma attacks. Ever since the temporary disappearance of Paris’ favourite black cat,_ Metro _has documented the steady rise in the number of powered villains troubling our fair city—an alarming 200% increase on a weekly basis. While Ladybug and Chat Noir have safely returned to the streets and continue to combat each and every turned-citizen, it would appear that Paris is no longer the safe haven it once was. Self-named villain Hawkmoth, the central manipulator of these difficult times, remains unreachable and therefore without comment, though it is anyone’s conjecture whether the person behind the scenes is encouraged or displeased by his most recent critical injury to one of Paris’ finest._

_[continued on p.12; read more about the new labour bill on superhero-related delays, and what it could mean for your job security in the workplace, on p. 23]_

 

 

 

The week presses on until Friday, when there is _yet another_ battle. Someone is trying to boil the Seine, which is—obviously awful, immensely dangerous, and Adrien has to bite back several _I’m steamed about it!_ comments that bubble up every time he’s asked for a reaction. It’s the third akuma attack this week, which is pretty much unheard of—Alya had even made a post about it, filled with citations and statistical breakdowns curtesy of her plethora of overeager underlings. There are charts and _standard deviations_.

Adrien isn’t sure what’s more impressive—that Alya has enough underlings to do this sort of work, or that she’s already made a post about this when the battle has yet to begin. Her future is going to be amazing, if not insanely terrifying to behold.

He leaps to the peak of a nearby roof and stares at the steam piling up. Water takes a lot of energy to change states, and the Seine is a _big_ river—hardly the place he’d choose if he had to pick a body of water to destroy. As of now it looks more or less the same, with the added danger of wisps of water vapour curling off its surface, hot enough in the summer heat to pose a real danger to anyone stuck on the bridges.

 _That’s gotta burn_ , he thinks idly, distracted by a red blur streaking past him.

She doesn’t even stop to talk anymore. Straight to business.

He chases after her anyway, holding his tongue and pouncing from roof to roof until they’ve dropped directly in front of the akumatized villain—a man garbed in orange and shouting about his lost kitten, every wild gesture of his arms causing a bend of steam to wrap tighter around him.

In the past the villains had been harmless in nearly every way—sure, sometimes you were put under a spell, and occasionally you had to quack like a duck or seek out a particular brand of confectionary to save the day, but no one was ever seriously _hurt._ The ordinary people who temporarily turned to the dark side seemed campy, over the top and difficult to take seriously. Not _dangerous_.

It’s different now. Almost as if as they got older, the villains got more creative. Trying to burn up the Seine _sounds_ ridiculous until you think about third degree burns and how hot it gets when someone is trying to melt your face off. A blast of warm air streaks past his face as Ladybug tugs him out of the path of danger.

“Shit,” he curses, under his breath because he’s a Rated-G type of superhero, “I can’t get close enough to even _guess_ at where the akuma could be hiding.”

Ladybug stares straight ahead, her hand still wrapped his forearm. “He’s got something in his hands.” She says, voice steady.

Chat follows her gaze, crouching low to keep out of the way. The steam is clouding their view, but it almost looks like… “Is that leash?”

“A leash.” She repeats. Her face is unreadable.

“It looks like one!” He defends, leaning closer. “Still…I don’t know what it has to do with the boiling—”

“A kettle-leash hybrid,” she jokes, though it falls flat as the grip on his arm tightens. “Fine, let’s start with that.”

Before he’s able to get another word in she’s pushed him behind her, running at the villain with a yell and a charge that could kindly be called reckless and arguably be described as fucking _suicidal_. Chat regains his balance in a blink and races after her.

There are people screaming. There are always people screaming, but right now they’re screaming from pain more than surprise. Chat waves at a group as he runs past, too focused on his partner to do more than shout at them to scatter and hope to god they’ll listen. Ladybug is in the air, throwing herself into the center of the maelstrom. He watches in slow motion as the villain whips something at her, and she goes flying, bouncing off the pillar of the Ponte de la Concorde and out of his vision even as he hurtles himself after her.

“Ladybug!” he shouts, leaning as far as he can over the railing without burning. “ _Ladybug_!”

There’s a wet cough a little distance away, and he’s extending his staff and fishing Ladybug from where she’s hanging off the ledge. He pulls her to his side and holds on for dear life, eyes flitting over her for injuries. She nudges his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she says, immediately belying that with a cough. Chat glares at her.

“ _Stop this_ ,” he begs, and he’s not sure what it is exactly he’s talking about. “We don’t even know what he’s after.”

Ladybug stands up. “It’s not _him_ , it’s Hawkmoth. And what else is this about?” she scowls. “He’s after us.”

“Ladybug…”

“Come on,” she says, baring her teeth in a pale imitation of a smirk, “you distract him and I’ll try and grab his weapon. You’re right, it looks like a leash, which means I can probably get a grip on it easily enough. The sooner we can get this over with the better.”

He stares up at her for another breathless moment before agreeing—if only because she’ll fight him on it otherwise. At least she still waits for his consent, though with the way things have been going, he’s not sure how much longer until she just lunges at the problem and hopes he’ll follow suit.

She tears off, keeping her body in between his and the villain. Chat does his best not to be offended as he draws the man’s attention and tries to keep his own off his partner’s treacherous flight.

It’s just…there have _always_ been differences in the way they fight—recruited at the same time but trained by very different akumas, there’s bound to be differences. It’s the differences in the way they _defend_ that’s changed. Chat is used to taking a blow for his Lady, because sometimes it’s safer to just get her out of the way where she can finish the job and reverse the bulk of the damage. Ladybug doesn’t need to do that—Ladybug saves the both of them, because she can, because she _knows_ she can. If there’s a blast headed their way, he’ll head into its path…while she’ll pull them both out of its way.

Now it’s come down to this, to Ladybug throwing herself at the bad guy and doing her damnedest to keep Chat out of the fray altogether. He’s not dumb—he gets that she’s scared, or whatever it is that happened after the train and the hospital and that singular bright memory of the week which followed. But this is a giant slap in the face that says she doesn’t trust him anymore. That he’s no longer useful. It feels like every lecture from his father, every cold look where there should’ve been some warmth, all rolled into one. Because Adrien had learned to be himself again through Chat, through being by Ladybug’s side and defending Paris. Now he’s denied even that.

It takes several more minutes of deflecting the danger before they get a clear look at the weapon in his hands—it is actually a leash, just a leash that’s glowing red and burns hot to the touch. Ladybug grabs it anyway, reaches for it while Chat’s distracted pulling a trapped family to safety, and he thinks he can hear her cry out even as she breaks it. The akuma is purified, the Seine reverted back to normal, and Ladybug leaves with a nod and clenched fingers.

Chat watches her go and wishes that, just for once, he had permission to follow her.

 

 

 

 **Adrien:** No, sorry, I can’t hang out tonight. My father’s attending some soiree and expects me to make an appearance. He’s already gotten a suit and tie laid out for me.

 **Nino:** can’t u just…appear and then DISappear??

 **Nino:** also i keep telling you, no one uses words like ‘soiree’ in a text.

 **Nino:** unironically at least.

 **Nino:** but seriously, it’s a no go?

 **Adrien:** I told him I would. And it says soiree on the invites, what else should I call it?

 **Nino:** :((((((

 **Nino:** call it LAME.

 **Nino:** sucks bro. we’ll send u some snaps so u don’t feel like ur missing out.

 **Adrien:** Thanks :) And are you sure you don’t just want to show off your and Alya’s functioning relationship?

 **Nino:** well why wouldn’t i it’s AWESOME.

 **Nino:** marinette’s hanging out w/ us too tho, so no worries we’ll keep the gross pda to a minimum.

 **Nino:** (coulda been a double date, just sayin’ ;D)

 **Adrien:** D:

 **Nino:** how is it u still only know three emoticons?

 **Adrien:** :3

 **Nino:** pls go enjoy ur soiree now.

 **Nino:** weirdo

 

Adrien’s lucky. In some ways he feels like the luckiest guy on the planet—he’s wealthy and privileged, he going to go to a paid university of his choosing, he has back-up savings from a job he didn’t even want all because his dad is a somebody and Adrien won the genetic lottery. He’s constantly getting to go to things kind of unimaginable for a teenager, concerts and operas and sports events, and a lot of the time he can get Nathalie to swing for extra tickets and bring Nino along. He’s got a healthy body and enough financial support to do whatever he wants with his future, so it shouldn’t really matter that his mother left and took most of his dad with her too.

And it doesn’t, not usually, because Adrien’s got people. He’s not sure how he got so lucky honestly because he’s spent the last several years with the same group of friends and they’re sort of amazing. Nino makes the dogged attempt to fill every gap he even thinks Adrien has in his life, from extravagant birthday parties to school dances to hanging out at his house and sneaking coconut candies when his mother isn’t looking. When Nino and Alya started dating Nino decided to just incorporate their friend groups—best of both worlds, he’d say, and Adrien would try very hard not to make a joke every time the two snuck off to make-out. Besides, now Alya’s his top contact on Snapchat and Marinette tags him in things on twitter all the time, and they’re always ditching something to take his house by storm, stretching their presences into the cavernous space until it almost feels like a home. And the best part—well, he’s a god damn superhero who gets to hang out with the woman he loves and save the day, like, all the time. It’s awesome. Things are a little rocky right now, sure, because Ladybug is avoiding the giant elephant in the room that is the train accident, but there was a point in his life where Adrien would’ve traded all the material wealth in his life for just a glimpse at a normal life. Now he _has_ that, he’s got something better than that…and he’s still got the privilege, the money and the secured future and—he’s emphatically blessed, is what he’s saying, his life is going pretty great.

And yet, all the good things in the world can’t beat back the twinge he gets just under his breastbone, every time he’s reminded that he’s lost a mother and hasn’t been able to really find his dad since. It’s maudlin—he knows it’s maudlin—but just because things are awesome in his life doesn’t mean he’s incapable of feeling that familiar sweep of sadness, and seeking out Chloe at these ridiculous socialite parties always helps him feel less alone.

At least he’s not the only rich blonde teenager with wayward parents and an obsession with Ladybug.

“He’s got the yacht now, in Spain,” she’s saying, idly toying with something sparkling and in a flute, “and he’s named it Ginger.”

“Is that after one of his new recipes or…”

“The mistress of course. I wouldn’t be so bothered if it wasn’t such a cliché—like, call the thing whatever you want, what do I care, but he’s nearly fifty.” She scoffs. “He could at least call her his girlfriend if he’s going to be giving her yachts.”

“Is that what it is?” Adrien asks, amused despite himself, “Once you give a boat to someone and put their name on it, it’s official? What do you do when you want them to move in with you?”

Chloe takes another long sip. “A jet?”

“A vacation home.”

“That’s one way to force the deal. ‘Hey honey I bought us a house, now come live in it with me. Don’t worry about my teenage daughter, I left her the villa in Milan.’”

“Oh, you’re moving to Italy now.”

“Hey,” she says, “why waste all those Italian tutors Papa got me?”

Adrien shoots her a look. “You hardly wasted them—unless you count that party you threw, with the—”

She cuts him off. “We aren’t talking about that. This is polite society mon cher, and polite society isn’t interested in any of my schemes.” She peers down her nose at him. Impressively, since Adrien’s a fair bit taller than her.

“Even all the schemes to get the Italian men and women in the neighbourhood topless?” Chloe continues to glare at him, steady and benign and not nearly as off-putting as the man lingering in a nearby doorway. Adrien’s a pro at fending off unwelcomed suitors from ‘polite societies’, though most days Chloe hardly needs it.

They’re both a little…well, guarded, as it were. Adrien wisely backs off the subject and leads the two off them to a different alcove, near two German men having a passionate debate over what sounds like horses. It’s a safe bet that neither of them know his dad and therefore don’t expect him to make any sort of small talk just because they’re in spitting distance of one another. Of course, given that Chloe’s dad knows everyone at these things, there’s a small chance they’ll try and accost _her._ Adrien shifts until he’s leaning against the ballroom wall, blocking her from sight.

Chloe raises her eyebrow at him. He flushes.

“Which one is this anyway,” he asks in lieu of a distraction, “the engagement party or the charity event?”

“That is just sad Adrien, especially since it’s neither—this is for the ballet.” Her frown is disapproving, probably because Chloe actually likes the ballet. “I know Nathalie gives you a schedule for these things.”

“I’ve been a bit behind,” he admits.

Chloe peers at him over the rim of her flute. “What was that about anyway? I thought your shoot was only meant to go until the fifteenth.”

“Picky director.”

“For an entire week?” She huffs. “Maybe you need to be looking for a yacht to buy. Is there some sweet little mistress waiting for you eagerly in…where was your shoot, Nice?”

Adrien looks away. It hits weirdly close—just because he spent the week with Ladybug doesn’t really mean anything, but it feels like something. If he could buy a yacht and salvage whatever it was they had that week he would, but Adrien’s intimately familiar with the notion that throwing money at a problem is a bad way to fix it.

“Lyon, and no yachts necessary. Besides, I’m way too young to be having mistresses.”

“Fangirls then.”

He laughs. “You were a fangirl once.”

Chloe stares at him placidly. “Which you didn’t notice until after I’d figured out what an incredible bore you are.” Adrien feigns a hurt look and Chloe laughs. “Admit it Agreste, there’s no way you would even want to keep up with my lifestyle!”

“Which is what exactly?”

She nudges him with her hip—a rather intimate move given their current location. Chloe had outgrown playing around at these parties when she was seven. “The rich thing, obviously. You may be divine in a tux but you’re hardly comfortable in one. Come on, we both know the moment you turn eighteen you are out of that house and immersed in whatever ridiculous thing you’ve decided to be your nerdy passion.”

Crime-fighting, he thinks, only a little nonsensically. “Physics actually. Not so nerdy.”

“Incredibly nerdy.” She says it like a compliment. There are a lot of lines to read in between when you’re friends with people like Chloe. “I know you want to keep in your father’s good graces but I also know you want to spite him a little. Rid yourself of the family name as it were. God knows I understand—why do you think Papa even finds out about half the things I do? It’s certainly one way to get his full attention. But I don’t hate the life. I mean, yeah, I think Papa is a bit ridiculous some times, but it’s _my_ ridiculous and I’ve decided to keep it.”

Adrien grins. “You’ll miss me.”

“You mean the gorgeous blonde man who defends my honour and harps at me in private when he thinks I’m being a bitch?” Adrien mulls it over and nods. “Of course I will. But I’m Chloe Bourgeois—I’ll survive.”

He looks at her fondly. “You’ll probably thrive.”

There are some part of Chloe that are made of pure steel—he glimpses it, when she grins at him, and it’s passionate and fierce and bordering on inappropriate for their setting. “Absolutely I will.”

“You won’t have to lurk with me in corners.”

She taps her fingers against her glass. “I’ll start getting pestered by your father, wanting to know why I stayed here and you flounced off to academia.”

“Do you ever hate them?” He asks, because he knows nothing of how to segue—this is why he needs to leave socialite life, honestly, he’s just an embarrassing social flop wherever he goes.

Chloe sighs and pats his arm. “Oh Adrien,” she says pityingly, “You know the problem is that we don’t.”

He stares out at the ballroom—they’re pretty far dug into the corner, but they haven’t gone and abandoned the party yet, which was what his initial game plan had been. Of course, then there had been Gabriel nearby and talking about what a nuisance the recent liberal minded vigilantes were, some snide remark about putting children in their place sliding off his tongue, and Adrien had been too caught out to make his excuses and leave.

It is a gorgeous event though. And if it’s something that Chloe enjoys it’s something he’ll probably guilt himself into staying at. As if on cue Chloe snags herself another flute of…the something, grabs one for him as well. “Now come on,” she says, pressing it into his hands, “I know you’re a dreadful bore, but this is a party and we are the rich and entitled, we don’t get to mope. Drink up and let’s go grease up some patrons.”

“You are so inappropriate.”

“Thank you,” she knocks her glass against his, “I learned most of it from you.”

 

 

 

 

It had been a cliché night, one of those beautiful summer evenings where the air is warm and the people are alive with a little _joie de vivre_ that keeps them out and about long past what’s advisable on a weekday night. The stars were faint in the city but there was enough light coming off the streets that evening, in the hours that tumble from one day to the next, that Chat could make out the face of his partner next to him—make out the forlorn stare and the downturn of her bottom lip as she looked out across the Seine.

It had been a few days, at that point, since they’d started up active patrols. A few days since he’d left the hospital and thrown himself back into the fray with a single-mindedness that belied his need to prove himself all over again.

They’d been sitting in the lower brackets of the Pont des Arts, quiet except for the sounds of the pedestrians wandering above them. The world was silent, and Chat had thought _this is my chance._

As usual, Chat had been wrong.

“Why didn’t you look?”

His voice had broken whatever calm had descended upon them. She stared down at the river, lips clamped tightly together—he can still picture the lines around her mouth, how the press of them together turned them white around the edges.

“When I lost consciousness,” he’d pressed, _hoping_ even where there shouldn’t be any, “I stayed in my transformation. But it wears off…I remember waking up and you being there, and I _know_ you didn’t look. But I thought that had just been a few minutes, because you weren’t there at first…only, the doctors…”

She kept her head down. Chat had been breathing deeply, trying to steel nerves which he didn’t think he had. He’d pushed on. “The doctors told me you’d been there for hours. _Hours_. And you…you didn’t look. Not once.”

“No.” She said, still looking down.

“No.” He repeated. He’d looked away, finding the words sticking to his throat. “No, you stayed in that room, long after I would’ve turned, but you told me you didn’t know who I was. That you’ve never seen behind my mask. Which means you didn’t _look_ and why—” he cuts himself off, shakes his head and looks back up at her. “Why wouldn’t you look?”

She finally looked up, lips still so thin as they pressed against one another. “Why _would_ I?”

“Because I would _want_ you to.” He bit out harshly. _Unfair_ , he thought then, still thinks now, _this is unfair for her._

“I wouldn’t have known that.”

“Three years! This thing—you know I would have been alright with it. I _know_ you would have.”

“You were unconscious Chat,” she was careful, oh-so calm, and it’d been infuriating. “And that means you didn’t get to agree to anything.”

“But when I woke up—you didn’t ask then either! These secrets—”

“Keep us _safe_!” And oh, then she’s yelling, standing up and staring at him—glaring at him. “We don’t know who each other is because it means _safety_ and you were unconscious and bleeding and—I don’t want to know! I don’t want _you_ to know!”

 _Of course you wouldn’t_. He stared up at her—the lines around her mouth are white, in his dreams she’s making this face at him _all the time_ and even though she’s finally meeting his eyes it’s become painful to look. _I wouldn’t trust me to know either_.

She must’ve seen something in his face, or maybe she’d been just tired from the constant vigilance in his stead. Either way she’d sunk down next to him with a deep sigh, burying her face in her hands. The sound of someone defeated.

“That’s—I didn’t mean that,” her voice is muffled, small, “I didn’t mean it.”

“You did.”

“Not like that.” She sounded so _hurt_. Chat hated it. Hates himself.

“You don’t want me to know?” he asked.

She gets really still then, and it’s so hard to keep to himself, so _hard_ because she’s curled up around herself and Chat knew—he _knows_ , he’s always known—that she was just a girl, just a kid like him, and he thinks that she needs support as much as he does…but she hasn’t consented to getting it. With a tiny movement she’d shook her head and crumpled something in him…she’d still been covering her face, but Chat’s curiosity was topped only by utter dismay.

He’d stood up. “Then I won’t know.”

“Chat—”

And he’d run away. Before he could hear the rest of what she wanted to say. He’d know that there had been more she’d wanted to say, but even now—months past the train incident and lives far removed from the warm muted silence of the bridge—Chat doesn’t need to hear it. Ladybug is a nice person and she’s _kind_. Chat loves her, so he knows this. He’d never want to have her kindness force her hand, and if how he felt made her uncomfortable then he could bury it away. He wasn’t fifteen and desperate anymore.

He loves her. That has to be enough. He tucks the memory away, this one and the one from the hospital where they’d seemed happy and content, and he tells himself _this has to be enough._

 

 

 

They’re hurtling towards the end of the year at an alarming pace, feet trapped between the overwhelming future and the rose-tinted past. It’s making everyone a little needy. Alya’s taken to phoning him some nights, occasionally with Nino puttering around in the background but just as often not. She’ll chat about her internship, or his acceptance to the university, about the way journalism is more cutthroat than she thought but that she likes it, likes that she gets to stand up to people and choose _why_. Adrien thinks Alya would make an excellent superhero, if only she weren’t so focused on uncovering other peoples’ secrets. She’d probably still make an excellent superhero anyway—like if Spiderman were interested in doing more for a newspaper than just snapping photos of himself.

Alya opens up about herself in a way that lets Adrien reciprocate, and because she’s blunt and honest he gets to be too.

There’s nothing more important to him than his friends, so when Alya informs him that they’re staging a protest for the end of lycée, and they’re staging it at his place—“No, you don’t get to argue, you have a _mansion_ and a _dance machine_ , I will bring the drinks if you just unlock your massive front door and withhold whatever god awful pun you want to make about that,”—Adrien is helpless to protest.

Her, Nino, and Marinette swing by early Sunday afternoon, laden with sweets from the Dupain-Chengs and a ridiculous amount of party cups.

“Cups but no drinks hmm,” he says, ushering them past the foyer, “I’m sensing a mistake here guys.”

Alya tuts as Nino turns around, revealing a fabric cooler strapped across his back. “Nope,” he says with a put-on sigh, “I’ve had to carry this thing for the last twenty minutes. I may feel a lot like a mule horse right now, but there ain’t no way we’d skimp on _refreshments_. Dude, c’mon.”

“Yeah dude,” Marinette mimics, elbowing Nino lightly, “ _c’mon_.”

“ _You_ just had to carry some macaroons—”

“ _Everyone_ likes macaroons.”

“Well yeah, duh, but they don’t weight _anything_.”

Marinette tilts her chin up defensively. “I’ll have you know I’m totally _ripped_.”

Nino breaks out laughing. Alya winds her way over to Adrien’s side, another box from Marinette’s family bakery in her hand, which she offers to him with a knowing grin.

“I know you’ve got a massive sweet tooth Agreste. No need to hold out around us.” She says, slinging an arm around his shoulder. Sometimes Adrien wants to remind Alya that he’s both older _and_ taller than her, and she can only pull off the older-sister routine for so long. A larger part of him wishes he’d met her so much earlier, when someone ruffling his hair would have been normal—annoying, even—rather than something he welcomed far too eagerly.

He bites into a pastry to keep himself from saying something dumb and sentimental—it’s the end of lycée, not their friendship—then herds them upstairs to his room. Alya steals Marinette immediately and heads over to where his video consoles are, while Nino drops the cooler and opens it for a drink.

“Seriously,” he complains, even though he’s smiling, “it’s a sauna outside today. Alya insists on walking everywhere, which is fine usually ’cause we’re pretty close to everything we want to go to, but…”

“A cooler is too much?”

Nino flops onto the couch, face first. “A cooler is too much.” he confirms, voice muffled by the cushion. Adrien pats him on the head then fishes out another can, setting it on the back of Nino’s neck. Nino sighs contently, keeping his head buried, and Adrien takes this as permission to head over to where the girls are slowly decimating each and every one of his high scores.

“I spent an entire week on that,” he grouses, watching Alya take out an entire hoard of aliens.

When Alya grins it’s a little maniacal. “Too bad. I made Tom play with me.”

“What?” Adrien shoots Marinette a betrayed look, who accepts it with a sweet smile and proceeds to turn on Alya and absolutely thrash her bunker. “You don’t let _me_ train with your dad.”

Marinette huffs. “Oh my _god_ you two, it’s not training, Papa just really likes his video games. And I don’t _let_ anyone, Alya was just at my house one morning and didn’t leave until after dinner. I don’t even think I said more than three sentences to you all day.”

“It’s just the first step in my plan, since Tom is Marinette’s apprentice.” Alya says dramatically, like she’s telling him a secret. Marinette flushes and Adrien catches on to the game, settling down on Marinette’s other side.

“He must be honoured.” Adrien says solemnly.

Alya nods. “The student has yet to surpass the master.”

Marinette sends a grenade launcher to Alya’s camp. Her ears are bright red and her eyes haven’t moved from the screen, even though she’s clearly biting down on a laugh. “ _I’m_ the student,” she points out, “and I’m kicking your ass, so do you want to keep on trying to distract me or do you want to _lose_.”

“Uhm, Marinette, those are terrible options.”

“Well _you’re_ a terrible option.”

“Excuse me,” Nino’s shout comes out faint, likely because he still hasn’t moved. “She’s _excellent_.”

Marinette and Alya share a look, then burst into giggles. Adrien can’t stop smiling. It takes another few minutes for Alya to admit defeat and pass the controller over to him, an easy habit ingrained from years of hanging out like this, comforting in how casual it all is. It’s _normal_. Nino eventual stumbles over, sitting propped up behind Alya, not playing but happily egging them all on, and that’s normal too. Their other classmates—his _friends_ —will come over later, but for now its just the four of them, and at fifteen this would have been a dream he couldn’t even have come up with, but now it’s just _normal_ and it’s amazing.

Even if Marinette _does_ defeat every last one of his high scores.

The rest of the party comes over near dinner, and they come bearing pizza and snacks and every awful greasy food that Adrien’s father had banned from their house. The stereo is finally dug out, music plugged in and kept at a respectable level—for a group of nearly twenty teenagers, at least—and it’s really, really good that Gabriel is out of town for another few days because Adrien would be grounded until _forever_ otherwise, despite being eighteen soon and moving out. No one tries to bring in any alcohol, since they’ve been friends for a while and they know that Gabriel would have _all_ of their heads, that the threat of Adrien’s father is enough to have Nino and Marinette on the hunt for people who try and break these rules, and because Adrien likes the modicum of freedom he currently gets. His friends respect that. His friends drag him to other people’s houses when they want to get plastered.

Alya and Nino steal him away to challenge people on the dance machine, the last remaining console on which Adrien can actually still _win_ , and it’s not until he’s begging off for fear of losing all feeling in his toes that he notices Marinette’s nowhere to be seen.

Ivan is in the middle of getting schooled by Alix, who’s quick feet make her a bit of a champ at any and all interactive games, and Alya’s got Nino filming the whole thing. Adrien watches them for a few seconds before butting in between them and asking about it.

“Marinette?” Alya glances around. “Man, she was just here a minute ago…”

“I haven’t seen her since Juleka and Rose started—”

“Synchronized dancing,” Alya finishes, snapping her fingers. “Right, I forgot. She told me she just wanted to go get some air. Weird, since it’s not like your room isn’t crazy huge.”

“Yes, I know, I could fit an entire zoo in here.” Adrien deadpans, with the worn down humour of someone who’s had this conversation many, many times. No matter how much Nino argues for it, Adrien is _not_ going to become a crazy cat lady. He’s already got Plagg, and honestly, one is quite enough.

“A whole elephant, Adrien,” Alya says, her eyes crinkling around the edges, “A massive mammal could comfortably live in your room.”

“When will this get old?”

“ _Never_.” Alya replies. Then, gnawing at her lip, she confides, “About Marinette…she’s been a little—distracted lately. I guess that’s the right word, although I haven’t been able to pin down why. She says she’s having these weird dreams and they’re keeping her up at night, but I don’t think it’s that.”

Adrien, knowing what a big admission it is for Alya to say _anything_ about Marinette without Marinette’s explicit approval, leans in close and keeps his voice as low as he can while still being heard. “You think she’s lying?”

Alya shakes her head. “Nooo…I don’t think it’s _just_ that. She won’t even say what the dreams are about. I know she’s been busy lately, but there’s _something_ on her mind and she doesn’t think she can tell me about it.” Alya looks up at him, a glint in her eyes that means nothing good. “But, maybe…”

“Maybe?”

Alya shrugs. “Maybe she’ll tell you?”

“Alya,” Adrien says carefully, pulling back, “You two are best friends. If she won’t tell you…”

“We’re all friends,” Alya says firmly, keeping her eyes steady on his, “And I might have been friends with Marinette first but we’re _all friends_.” She flicks Adrien on the forehead. “When will you get that into your silly blonde head? There are things that I find easy to talk to Marinette about, and there are things that are easier for me to discuss with you or Nino first. It doesn’t mean I _won’t_ tell you all eventually…it just means that we’re all different people, and the friendships we have with each other are all _awesome_ , but they’re all different. Don’t be dumb about this.”

“I’m not,” he defends.

“You are,” she shoots back, but she’s smiling again. “C’mon. Worst thing that’ll happen is she’ll just brush you off like she’s been brushing me off. I’m sure she’ll talk about it when she’s ready. In the meantime, we should all be enjoying this _awesome_ party with our friends. As the host, you gotta go let her know.”

“You’re a little manipulative, did you know that?”

Alya smirks. “Duh. Now shoo.”

She turns back to watching Nino film. Adrien takes it for the well meaning dismissal it is, and heads off to go search.

Despite Nino and Alya’s quips, his room isn’t actually _that_ big…at least, it’s not big enough to lose someone in it. A quick sweep of the space and he realizes she’s not actually anywhere to be found, which means she’s either holed up in the bathroom—unlikely—or is out wandering the main house. Marinette’s been his friend for a while, so it’s possible she’d feel comfortable going off on her own, and he knows she respects the domineering presence of his father in each crook of the house beyond his own, and won’t go poking around too far.

True to form, he finds her a few minutes later, planted in front of a portrait. It’s not of anything important—his father collects art like most wealthy men do, which is to say he likes showing it off and spends very little time appreciating it when there’s no company to be found. So even though Adrien’s certain that the portrait of the young duchess has been hanging in this hallway for most of his life, he has no clue who it is.

He watches Marinette for a second, waiting to see if she’ll move on, but she just keeps standing there, her hand curled protectively around her purse. Adrien figures she’s not really seeing the portrait at all. She’s bent in on herself, her shoulders curved inwards and her hand on her purse is tight enough to whiten the points of her knuckle. There’s even a ragged bit of skin at the corner of her mouth where she’s probably been worrying over it.

Worrying over _something_ …Alya’s right—whatever it is that’s bothering Marinette, it's something big.

Adrien _wants_ to be someone who can invite disclosure, he does. He’d listen, if Marinette wanted to tell him. Even if he didn’t have any good advice, he could at least listen, right? That’s what Nino does, whenever Adrien is troubled—and even when Nino gives advice that Adrien would never take, Adrien appreciates the good intentions and he’s always warmed by the thought that his friend is worried over him. Surely Marinette would feel the same way. But if she hadn’t confided in Alya, Adrien can’t see why she’d talk to him about whatever’s bothering her.

“A-Adrien?” He startles, focusing back in on Marinette, the _real_ , right-in-front-of-him Marinette…who’s now looking straight back at him. He’s stopped just a few feet away from her, so when she turns to face him he’s struck momentarily by the shocking bright blue of her eyes, and the irritated redness around them. “I didn’t notice you there.”

He smiles ruefully, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“You’re very quiet on your feet.” She accuses.

“Yeah…” Years of a double-life come in handy. He approaches her now, since it’s probably weird to keep standing like a moron and staring. “Everything alright?”

Marinette smiles softly, even though she’s still hunched over, still drawing her purse in front of her like a defense. “It’s fine! I just…needed some air.”

“That’s what Alya said.” Adrien steels himself. “But…”

Marinette blinks up at him, unsuspecting, and Adrien hates to push but he does because Alya asked and because Marinette’s a friend. Friends are important.

“But…?” she repeats.

“If you were looking for something else…I mean, if that wasn’t the case…that’d be okay too.”

 _That’d be okay too_ —god, no matter how many times he finds himself in situations like these he _always_ mucks it up somewhere. He’d even gone through something similar this week with Nino and that had been _fine_ , only Adrien is pretty sure Marinette wouldn’t be cheered up by him dropping cake-puns into their nonexistent conversation. Plus, Nino had gone looking for Adrien, there had been a clear implication that it was an Issue and that Adrien could help. With Marinette it’s just conjecture, and barely even _his_ conjecture. Cake-puns don’t really mesh with conjecture.

There is a slight chance he’s overthinking things.

Marinette’s giggle draws him out of his litany—thank god—and when he glances back at her she’s smiling softly, shoulders a little more relaxed.

“You went somewhere for a second,” she says coyly, “maybe you’re looking for something else too?”

There are a lot of things Adrien wishes he could say—wishes he could confide—and absolutely none of them are the type of topics he can just _talk_ about. Some of them are actually a little inappropriate.

“Just you,” he says, settling for honesty. “I noticed that you left.”

“Oh.” She blinks up at him, the exclamation soft on her lips. Adrien smiles self-consciously.

“Sorry, if you did just want some air, I can leave—”

“No!” Marinette says, a little forcibly. Then again, softer, “No…it’s okay. I was just thinking.”

“Anything I can help with?”

She looks up at the painting, going quiet. Then, with apropos to nothing, she asks, “Do you know who this is?”

Adrien shifts nervously. “Not a clue,” he admits.

The girl in the portrait is likely someone of importance, by the way she’s dressed up in finery and from the small title at the edge of the picture that gives her the rank of nobility. Her eyes are the same implacable blue that he sometimes sees across the dining room table, not so much cold as distant, as if there are far better uses of her time than sitting for a picture. Adrien supposes that perhaps there are—he’s not too read up on the daily going-ons of duchesses and their ilk, and he still doesn’t know the era of the picture, but he imagines lots of people have better things to do than sit still all day and stare at an artist.

He glances over at Marinette, who’s staring at the duchess rather sadly. He nudges her with his shoulder.

“She looks like she has a secret,” Marinette admits, when Adrien doesn’t speak up. “Like she’s conflicted about it so she’s refusing to think of it at all.”

There’s something to be said about bringing your own interpretation to art. He nods. “I could see that.”

“It’s silly.” Marinette protests.

“It’s art,” he shrugs, “There’s not much point to art unless it makes you feel _something_.”

Marinette laughs. “Wise words from the man who still can’t remember his butler’s first name.”

Adrien frowns, faking offense. “Who’s to say it _isn’t_ Gorilla?”

“There are laws, I think, that keep people from calling their kids _really_ weird names.”

“Maybe it’s his nickname.”

Marinette just smiles. “Maybe,” she says softly.

Tentatively he asks, “Is uh…is everything alright then? The party wasn’t too much for you?”

She grins like he’s said something delightful. “No, the party was fine.”

“Fine.” he repeats.

“Great, even,” she concedes, “since Nino stopped complaining about me turning him into a postal worker once people started turning up.”

“Marinette, if you don’t want to talk about it…”

She glances at him cagily and the smile slips from her face. The hallway becomes quiet again, the music from his room just a soft murmur at this distance—something, he realizes, she probably had been well aware of. Nothing says solitude like knowing there were people having fun nearby and keeping yourself well away from it.

“It’s…it’s nothing I can really _talk_ about. I got a friend into an uncomfortable situation recently. I’m worried about it…and I’m scared to have it happen again.” She says it without any intonation, though she rushes through the words quickly, almost as if she’s trying to bite them off as they come out.

Adrien can tell there’s only so much he can push before she clams up, that she’s already on the defensive and wary about anyone prodding that. He tries to match her tone, keeps his body in the same position, facing the portrait of the duchess who maybe has a secret, who’s maybe Marinette, in her eyes.

“How likely is it that it’ll happen again?”

She turns to him with wide eyes, and Adrien knows with stark clarity that she’s been crying.

“Very.” She admits.

“And was it…do you think it was your fault?” he asks.

She nods, just once, and the breath she takes in catches. “I know it was.”

Adrien lets out a gusty sigh. It draws Marinette’s attention so he edges in closer to her, careful to move slowly.

“Is your friend mad about it?”

She shakes her head. “Not about that, no.”

He looks over at her—she’s biting her lip but she’s no longer looking at the duchess. “Then about…?”

“Other things,” she waves her hand about, a short, jerky gesture. “I—it’s something I’ll have to talk to him about.”

He crosses his arms and nods. “A private thing then.”

The lights from the ceiling casts shadows under her eyes as she closes them, lashes brushing across her cheeks. “Yes. For now.”

He looks at her and thinks, not for the first time, that for all her joking otherwise, Marinette is incredibly strong-willed. She’ll tell him when she’s ready, if she ever and wants to. And until she does… "You're an amazing friend Marinette," she looks at him and he makes sure his smile is genuine, that she can tell he means it, "I'm sure he knows that."

She fiddles with the strap of her purse. "Th-thanks. That's sweet of you."

"And true."

Her lips quirk. "Alright, if you insist."

"I do." When she doesn't look like she plans to say anything else on the matter, he adds on, “Well then, if you don't want to go back to the party…how does going to find some other terrible ancestral portraits and help me make up my family background sound?”

She points at the duchess. “Is this your _relative_?”

He shrugs, his hand brushes against hers. “Why not? I’ve clearly got her flair for the dramatics—look at that uh…thing right there.” He gestures useless to the ribbon twined through…something on her dress. It’s purple. He likes purple.

Marinette bites her lip, eyes crinkling. “You’ve worn jeans and a t-shirt to class every single day since I’ve known you. If you weren’t a model, I’d worry you weren’t aware there were other clothing options.”

“Hey,” he says defensively, “I dress up when we all hang out.”

“You wore a onesie when we went to the bowling alley last month.”

“And I _rocked_ it.” He tugs on her hand, dropping it when she moves to follow him.

“Adrien Agreste,” she says, eyes lit up, “are you trying to cheer me up?”

He grins shamelessly. “Maybe. Depends on if it’s working.”

She leans into him, just briefly as they head further down the hallway, her shoulder pressed against his arm. She’s so _tiny_.

“Yeah, it’s working.” She says, and she’s got her hands off her purse, her knuckles no longer white and tense. Something in Adrien unfurls at the thought that Alya was right—she _did_ want to talk to him.

This is the thing about Marinette—Adrien sort of adores her. She’s sweet and kind in a way that makes her fierce, defending the vulnerable even when it scares her to do so. Sometimes she stands apart from things, holding her secrets tight to her chest, but she’s never been cold or distant. She probably couldn’t even if she tried—Marinette immerses herself in other people’s problems as if every bully is a personal offense, every hardship a crime. In another life he thinks he could love her, unabashed and without reservation.

But in this one…things are complicated. Adrien’s got Plagg, he’s got a secret life, and he’s got Ladybug. Ladybug, who left the biggest impression, changed him in the most irreversible of ways. There will never be a point in his life where that won’t be true, and he can’t imagine trying to forget about her, let alone succeeding. It would be wretched and unfair of him to attempt to untangle the complicated feelings he has around Marinette, to try and deal with the heaviness in his chest every time he looks at her, so he doesn’t. He lets himself feel it, presses it tighter, and then he moves on.

It’s complicated. Sometimes it’s even painful. But he has her friendship, and maybe that means more. Adrien doesn’t want to be greedy, only to have everything fall apart at his feet.

 

 

 

 

It’s always the middle of the week when the akumas decide to flare up, destroying Paris during his classes or after-school tutoring—never during his free time, god forbid. Adrien stumbles onto his rooftop at a ridiculous hour and squints up at the sky in an attempt to figure out if that’s really a sunrise he’s seeing, or if maybe he’s lost his mind. The battle that day had gone on until a ridiculously late hour, and had been against a child armed with _flash bombs._ He’s still trying to figure out if this means Hawkmoth has officially recruited child soldiers or if he’d just gifted one of them with a very annoying toy.

He’s technically _on_ his house, and he’s exhausted, so even though there’s probably a camera trained on him he detransforms, resolving to edit the footage away in the morning. Very late in the morning, because he is _so fucking tired_ , and why don’t the bad guys understand he has curfew for a reason? Living an intensely routine life means the world tends to flip head over heels when he’s not asleep by eleven o’clock.

Thinking is hard. Getting into the house is hard. Plagg floats up to his shoulder and plops himself down there, a soft snore the only sign that he’s fallen asleep, and honestly, Adrien’s _really_ tempted to follow suit and just pass out here on the rooftop, explanations be damned.

 _I’ll just tell dad that I’ve started sleepwalking,_ Adrien thinks vaguely, eyelids drooping, _Sleep climbing. Sleep something. At least I’d be asleep._

“Yo,” a voice says, disembodied. “Took you long enough.”

Plagg leaps up, yowling, and Adrien’s head hits the back of the tiling he raises it so fast. There’s no one he can see, but without the transformation his night vision leaves a lot to be imagined…and besides, Plagg is freaking out enough for the both of them.

“ _What_?” he hisses, scanning the ridge, “What is it?”

Plagg clings to the top of his head. “There’s another kwami. Close.”

“Who—”

“Gosh, you _are_ slow.” The voice says, and Adrien follows it to the edge of his perch. There’s a person sprawled out over one of the sun roofs, which seems a little…impractical, actually.

Adrien blinks. The body moves, enough to reveal a flash of orange. There’s no _way_ Adrien has enough energy to fight someone else tonight, and Plagg still needs time to rest up for another transformation.

“It’s alright, I guess.” It continues—a woman’s voice, from what he can tell, with a faint accent. “You did have to fight an actual bad guy tonight…which is so _weird_. There’s not a lot of genuine villains out there, let me tell you. Your little nook of Paris is lucky in that regard.”

He remembers that he has a voice, and that this is still technically his property. He trusts that Plagg has a decent hold on his hair and jumps down the small wall between him and the sunroofs.

“Who are you then?” he asks, steeling his voice.

She laughs. “Right, you guys don’t really _do_ recon. I’m a little amazed that none of the reporters here have managed to suss out your secret identity—although I suppose it must be hard without one of these small little gods giving you the ability to leap over buildings.”

Plagg rumbles reassuringly above him. “It’s okay,” he says, tail whipping back and forth, “I don’t think her kwami’s evil.”

“You can feel it?” he whispers.

Plagg nips his ear. “I _know_.”

The figure draws herself up, feet planted on the glass panes with the ease of someone who knows its not about to break on her. “That’s right little kitty. There’s nothing here to get your fur all in a twist.”

She slowly steps backwards, straight into a patch of moonlight. He’s caught on how tall she is, first, which turns out to be because of a pair of mammalian ears she has poking out from an overabundance of auburn hair. Dressed head to toe in a form-fitting suit of blacks and oranges and white, with a mask stretched across two cat-like eyes, it’s suddenly completely obvious that he’s found himself face to face with another superhero.

She grins as if she knows exactly where his train of thought has led him and she’s pleased by it. She places a hand on her shoulder, bowing over with a careless smirk and a twist of her feet that makes the gesture anything but subservient.

“I’m Volpina,” she greets, standing back up and offering a hand. “I’m reinforcements sent by Master Fu.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasps* oh dear oh my!!
> 
> wow, that took a really long time to update! for a fic i actually planned out, it was weirdly difficult to write this chapter. i promise better updates in the future, as the action actually progresses and the plot actually...thickens. i took a break because the first season of miraculous ladybug was still airing ( _is_ still airing, i know) although it's started to wind to an end. but yeah, there's been _so much stuff_ going on in the episodes right now! it could've completely destroyed my working plot line, so i had to hedge my bets and wait out any massive plot twists thomas astruc might've wanted to send my way. like those ORIGINS EPISODES oh my god.
> 
> anywho, i'm back and so is some angst. i promise you don't have to be sad about adrien forever...and look! he's got so many awesome friends! everyone love adrien, because adrien is actually the literal definition of 'cinnamon roll, too good for this world, so pure'. he might be sad NOW...and maybe also LATER...there is definitely a point in this fic where he is Not Sad At All.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a sleeper fan who's just come out of the woodworks of liking 9000 pictures of these two dweebs in various costumes and i can't stop, won't stop, don't even have the remote inkling of what 'stopping' is. with that being said, this is going to be (supposedly) a ten chapter piece.
> 
> it started off pretty angsty, i know. i'm sorry, it's probably going to get worse before it gets better.  
> (come find me on [tumblr](http://msbricolage.tumblr.com/))


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